


objects in the mirror are closer than they appear

by greyspilot



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Dubious Consent, M/M, Mirrors, Psychological Horror, Supernatural Elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-12
Updated: 2020-04-12
Packaged: 2021-02-23 03:13:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,334
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23604757
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/greyspilot/pseuds/greyspilot
Summary: Steve wasn’t scared of much anymore, but as he tip-toed through the woods, dead silent aside from the crunch of leaves beneath his feet, he couldn’t seem to help the chill that crept up his spine.Reposted for Horrorscopes round 1.
Relationships: Billy Hargrove/Steve Harrington
Comments: 8
Kudos: 22
Collections: Horrorscopes, Round 1: Forbidden Words





	objects in the mirror are closer than they appear

**Author's Note:**

> Words: throat, hollow, carcass  
> Sign: Scorpio (because this is almost psychological horror, and I got the overall vibe of sensual and headstrong from Scorpio. Sexy but perceptive and that’s what I aimed for this to be. Other imagery/themes used: fall, iron, purple, genital organs, desire.)

Steve wasn’t scared of much, these days. He used to be scared of the dark, but Billy helped with that. He used to be scared of the loneliness, but well, Billy helped with that, too.

He definitely wasn’t scared of monsters anymore. Not after he’d spent far too many nights waking up in a cold sweat, not after far too many nightmares of alien dogs, slime-slicked skin and faces that opened like Venus fly trap.

So, Steve wasn’t scared of much anymore, but as he tip-toed through the woods, dead silent aside from the crunch of leaves beneath his feet, he couldn’t seem to help the chill that crept up his spine. (It was a chill that Steve was certain had nothing to do with the cold November, air and everything to do with the fact that it was midnight and the sky had long ago turned a deep indigo and he was out here _alone.)_

“Billy?” He called out into the darkness, glancing around for any sign of life and, somewhere deep in his gut, almost hoping he doesn’t get a response.

Because if he didn’t get a response, if this really _had_ been a joke and Billy _had_ stood him up, then he could turn around and go _home._ And it wouldn’t surprise him, was seeming more and more likely by the second, because Billy hadn’t been acting like himself lately.

They’d been doing this for a while now, sneaking out and hooking up. And they didn’t really _talk_ about it, but they’d been getting closer and as much as Billy might hate to admit it, Steve knew him pretty damn well. Knew things about him that Billy would only admit in the earliest hours of the morning, shrouded in the safety of darkness.

Knew things like that it was coming up almost a year since the Mind Flayer took over. Almost a year since Billy, the _real_ Billy, was dragged to hell and ripped apart from the inside, reduced to nothing but a shell in the shape of keg king Billy Hargrove. A walking carcass.

And Steve might not be scared of much anymore, but Billy…

Billy still couldn’t look in a mirror. Not since _that night_ the night he’d come face to face with _himself, o_ utside in the dark and shrouded in fog. Steve had tried to tell him it’d been a trick of the light, that the Mind Flayer was inside his head, that he’d been imagining things. Tried to tell him that the Upside Down had been playing tricks on him, but Billy wasn’t convinced.

Billy swore that when he looked in the mirror it wasn’t him looking back. It was something _else_ s, something that smiled when he frowned, something that laughed when he cried. It was something that looked like him, just a little _off,_ a little _wrong._ Something with the same golden hair, just a little duller, the same blue eyes, just a little...hollow.

He’d covered every reflective surface in his house the day he got out of hospital; an old towel draped over every mirror, curtains being pulled shut the moment the sky turned purple at the first hint of sunset.

And there had still been incidents, but that’s to be expected after a trauma like Billy’s, Steve thinks. There had been times when the old towel slipped and Billy had put his fist through his reflection just to keep from looking at it, had cried on Steve’s shoulder and apologised as the brunette cleaned up the glass and his cut up knuckles.

But he’d been getting better. He’d been speaking to someone, getting help, opening up, letting Steve _in._

He’d been getting _better._ He’d been able to look at his own reflection for more than two minutes without wanting to scream or cry or shatter the glass. Without fuckin’ _hating_ himself.

Slowly, the towels had started to come down one by one and the curtains stayed open even when the clouds looked like they’d been painted on a violet canvas. And then, a few days ago, the towels went back up. The curtains drew closed for good.

Billy would barely even look Steve in the eye anymore, and Steve _loved_ Billy’s eyes. Bright and blue and full of life, even when Billy wasn’t. Billy always looked at Steve with a certain kind of fondness, a deep desire that’d stayed hidden for too long. Steve missed having those eyes on him.

And, okay, maybe Steve had been a little rash when he agreed to meet Billy in the middle of the night, in the woods that lingered on the outskirts of Hawkins. But he would be the first to admit that he was _desperate,_ that he wanted to see Billy, to get lost in those blue eyes and untangle the mess of thoughts in Billy’s head as he tangled his hands in golden hair and kissed the truth from his lips.

“C’mon, Bill.” He tried calling again, because Billy _had_ to be out there. Because Billy had _told_ him to come, and Billy may not have been acting like himself, but he wouldn’t do that to Steve. Not after everything they’ve been through. “Stop fucking around!”

The woods seemed to pulse with each beat of his heart as he waited… waited…. waited…

And then there was a rustle of trees up ahead, followed by the snap of a twig underfoot. As if upon pure instinct, Steve’s fists tightened around his bat, knuckles going white, palms chafing the wood, as he held the bat over his shoulder.

Something moved up ahead, a dark silhouette emerging from between the trees.

He couldn’t make out exactly what it was as the figure stood to its full height, but from where the thing stood beneath naked branches of dead trees, Steve almost swore it looked like a-

A Demogorgon.

Steve’s heart thudded against his ribcage.

Fear lodged itself in his throat, blocking his airways.

He raised the bat, ready to _swing._

The shape moved closer, closer, closer.

Steve sucked in a deep breath, pulled the bat back as though charging for an attack and then-

And then Billy came into view.

He let out a soft sigh of relief, let his bat drop with his guard.

“Pretty boy,” Billy said. The nickname sounded foreign, like it didn’t belong on his tongue, like he was having second thoughts about this. About _Steve._

Those thoughts were thrown out the window the moment Billy held out a hand.

As he wordlessly followed Billy through the desolate forest on the outskirts of Nowhere, Indiana, there was something nagging at the back of his mind, telling him that Billy was acting _wrong_ , not quite _himself_. He could hear a voice like a whisper in the distance, a voice that sounded almost like Billy’s, telling him that something was _off,_ that Billy’s hand was too cold and his golden hair was too dull.

But Steve had learned long ago that he couldn’t trust himself, that his mind liked to play tricks on him, make him think that the lies it told during his loneliest hours were the truth. So despite his best instincts, Steve shrugged it off, happy just to have Billy for the first time in days as he followed him deeper and deeper into the woods until they reached the Camaro.

Billy’s eyes still didn’t search out Steve’s, even as he walked up ahead and opened the door of the backseat.

Steve had been going out of his _mind_ without Billy around the past few days. At this point, Billy was like an addiction and Steve was having _withdrawls,_ was craving the feeling of Billy’s hands on him, yearning for even the smallest touch. He dropped the bat, letting it hit the ground with a soft thud as he grabbed at Billy’s belt and dragged him down onto the backseat.

Billy stayed silent as he let Steve lure him into the car, let him draw closer until their bodies were flush together. Steve shivered at Billy’s cold skin, feeling the bite even through the fabric of his sweater. He always did tell Billy to wear a jacket.

Billy never did listen.

The weight of Billy above him kept Steve pressed firmly into the leather, though it was a little harder than usual, the lines of his body digging into Steve a little more, too. And Steve knew it’d been a few days since he’d had this, but Billy didn’t feel quite as solid, his hips and knees and elbows too sharp where they were pressed against Steve.

That voice in the back of his mind telling him _wrong, wrong, wrong_ was silenced when Billy’s mouth latched on to the crook of his neck.

Steve whimpered, pulling Billy further into him. One of Billy’s hands found Steve’s hair, grabbing at the locks. It felt good to feel wanted again, even when Billy tugged almost too hard, until Steve could feel strands of thick brown hair tearing from his scalp.

But Steve didn’t mind the sting. Didn’t mind that Billy seemed intent on leaving bruises in the shape of his fingertips. Didn’t mind that the hand in his hair gripped too tight, yanked his head back with a force that almost made Steve’s neck crack.

He didn’t mind that a hand was coming to wrap around the exposed column, pressing into his Adam’s apple and cutting off his air supply.

He didn’t mind, but Billy’s palm was too firm against his jugular and he was starting to feel light headed.

Gasping for breath, Steve clawed at the hand around his throat, but Billy had always been stronger, always been able to overpower him.

Sharp canines scraped across Steve’s lower jaw, piercing the skin.

“B-Billy, wait-” his voice came out in soft rasps, barely there. “Too much- Bill- _stop_!”

But Billy didn’t stop, pinned him further against the backseat.

“Got you now, pretty boy.” His voice was like gravel, too deep, all the playfulness that Steve had had fallen in love with was gone.

He couldn’t dwell on it though, not when his breath was coming out in short pants and his eyelids were getting heavy and the world around him was getting dark, vision blurring at the sides like a bad vignette.

Blunt nails grated the skin at the side of Steve’s neck until he felt something thick and warm trickle down and _drip, drip, drip_ onto the leather of the Camaro.

Steve battled to stay conscious as those lips, cold and chapped and so unfamiliar, so unlike _Billy,_ sought out his.

This kiss was nothing like any of the kisses they’d shared before. This kiss was too much teeth, Steve choking on Billy’s tongue.

And then there was a hand snaking between them, tugging down his zipper too _rough,_ shoving his underwear aside and gripping him with a fist that was too _harsh_ and it _hurt._ Billy was causing Steve _pain_ and not in the way that made Steve melt in Billy’s hands. Not the kind of pain where Billy knew when it was _just_ too much, just enough to make Steve beg for _more._

Billy was making Steve _hurt._ He hurt in a way that made him want to _run._

He licked into Steve’s mouth, sucked his lower lip between his teeth and bit down until he felt the tissue pierce.

The taste of iron flooded Steve’s mouth.

That voice in his head was back, but this time it was screaming: _wrong! Wrong! Wrong!_

He tried to cry out but the sound was muffled against Billy’s mouth. He pushed against Billy’s exposed chest, against skin that was _cold_ when Billy usually ran _hot._

It was no use.

Billy had always been broader, stronger, could always manhandle Steve and he had always _liked it_. Always made him feel _safe._

And Steve felt sick to his stomach because he’d never felt more in danger than he did right now, surrounded by Billy, the one person who had always made him feel invulnerable.

Fingernails dug in deeper like talons, penetrating the skin, tearing at his throat. Steve threw his head back with a tortured howl.

That’s when he saw it.

His vision was fading with the rest of him, and it was pitch black outside but Steve saw Billy’s reflection clear as day.

The reflection was shouting, yelling things that Steve couldn’t hear from this side of the glass. There was another Billy ( _his_ Billy, the _real_ Billy) out there in the dark, lost in a world that Steve couldn’t reach. Pounding his fists against the window, trying to get in. Or trying to get _out._

Trying to _save Steve._

The real Billy, the Billy that was stuck, _trapped_ on the other side, was crying out as he watched the scene unfold before him, mouth stretched wide, teeth bared as he screamed a silent _no._

Steve felt his stomach churn. Billy always said there was something in the mirror. Something _else._

Steve should’ve believed him.

He looked back at the boy on top of him, at the _other Billy_ and, for the first time in days, he caught his gaze.

His mouth dried.

His breath left him with a whimper.

Those eyes, usually so bright and blue and full of life, those eyes that he _loved_ , so, so _much_ -

They were hollow.

And Steve…

Steve was _scared._

And Steve wasn’t scared of much these days.

He used to be scared of the dark, but Billy helped with that.

He used to be scared of loneliness, but Billy helped with that, too.

He didn’t think he was scared of monsters anymore, but he was _terrified_ of this one.

Because this monster had bright blue eyes that were just a little hollow. This monster had golden hair that was just a little dull. This monster was everything he loved, just a little bit _wrong,_ a little bit _off,_ a little bit _upside down._

Because _this_ … this wasn’t Billy.

This was nothing but a walking carcass.


End file.
